lovers & killers
by enparis
Summary: two stories, two chapters; one of loneliness, the other of sympathy. both based on the song 'personal' by stars.
1. lovers

**a/n; this fic is about the song 'personal' by stars. orignally, i had just intended for this first chapter to exist. however, after finding out the song's true meaning (based on the murder mystery), the plot bunnies began plotting and i was helpless to their evil ways. **

**chapter one is lovers, the story of two lonely people, both searching for escape, but neither of them finding it the way they want. **

**chapter two is killers, the story of a man and a woman. a target and a murderer. and the sympathy that gets in the way. **

**disclaimer; i do not own personal or castle. trust me.**

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><p>He was ashamed to admit that it hadn't been Martha's idea. It had been his fingers that tapped away at the worn down keys of his laptop - this time new words being typed out, something that wasn't crime and mystery and murder. Something that even he couldn't properly define, which scared him some considering that, as a writer, he had an extensive vocabulary and it was basically his job to describe and define things. This, however? This was... new? Pathetic? Desperate? An experiment? Loneliness?<p>

Him. Richard Castle. He could have his pick of women, easy. But all those women knew him as Ricky or Richard or Castle or the author or the famous author or the rich famous author. Stories and gossip and rumour and reputation and all of it he was sick, sick, sick. He wanted a sweet taste of anonymity.

Castle spent so much time clicking away and wearing down his keyboard keys; all his time spilling out letters and words onto a screen. For once, he wanted to just be words on a screen. A character of a person. Somebody with all the possible plot twists waiting ahead for him.

Instead of the glamour and buzz, he needed quiet. Alone. Somebody who appreciated him for the words and sentences that made up him as a person, not the words and sentences that made up the stories that made up what he did.

* * *

><p><em>(wanted: single f, under thirty three, must enjoy the sun, must enjoy the sea, sought by single m, mrs. destiny, send photo to address, is it you and me?)<em>

* * *

><p>Detective Beckett was about ready to pull out her gun and make Lanie pay. This idea was stupid, the website was stupid, her profile was stupid. Her loneliness was just <em>stupid<em>. And Lanie shouldn't have even gotten involved. The raised eyebrows as she declined another promise of a hunky date, she could deal with. But an online dating profile?

The Katherine Beckett in her, the same girl who had the tattoo and the motorbike and insisted on doing things her way and who fell apart as her father fell apart but managed to pick herself up quick enough to drag him up along with her and the little girl who somehow lost the little girl part of her and traded it in for a badge and a gun, she liked the idea.

Not the idea of anonymous freaks wanting to 'get to know her'. The idea of having a hand to hold and a mouth to kiss and a body to press against hers. A person to call her own and warn her away from touching that manilla folder with the details of her mother's murder stamped across the pages. A person who could call her his, as much as she hated thinking she could completely belong to somebody, the idea thrilled her the same way a loaded gun did. Something with so much power to destroy, yet something she can hold that protects her and ensures that she can't be touched. (Mostly.)

So, the Kate inside her doesn't delete the profile, only edits it. And as the suggestion pops up on her screen, the Detective wants to X out of it and close the site and take a long sip of a hot coffee to drag her kicking and screaming back to the reality that she would never be able to have anything she wanted because she was too damn tangled up in the past.

For once, that part of her is silenced.

* * *

><p><em>(reply to single m: my name is katherine, cell phone number here, call if you have the time, twenty eight and bored, grieving over loss, sorry to be heavy, but heavy is the cost, heavy is the cost)<em>

* * *

><p>He doesn't know what to expect or do or say (or rather, type). Richard Castle, at a lot for words. Ironic. Except it shouldn't be, not really, because beyond being a writer, he's a person too. And they're allowed to be lost for words, right?<p>

Except he's not exactly _speechless_. His fingers are still clicking and tapping and working furiously to do something that he's not even sure yet. Another thing he can't really define because he's never experienced it and doesn't understand. Eventually he gives in and gives up and sighs, pushing the hair from his forehead.

Alexis will be home soon. He scrawls a note, leaves it on the counter and grabs his coat to leave the loft.

He walks in central park, where the leaves are decaying to a burnt apple pie colour, and finally breaking off the branches to float to the ground. Around him are couples and parents and dogs walking their owners and around the corner there are cars and cabs and walkers and jay walkers. It's not like Richard Castle to ever be tired of how things are - no, he's mister jump up and go. Fun to be had, parties to attend, daughter's boyfriends to intimidate.

Books to write.

Which is the crux of the matter really, because most of who he is stems from his writing. And sometimes it seems like everybody in his life if jut so desperate to smush the two together, so he becomes the words that he clicks out onto a page. He wants somebody who doesn't care for that. Words are just words. As magical, beautiful, influential, complicated and downright awesome as they could be, he liked to think that people where much more than words on a page.

Deciding he won't let himself become that, he stands up and leaves the bench and the park and returns home to the words and the clicking and tapping.

* * *

><p><em>(reply to katherine: thanks so much for response, these things can be scary, not always what you want, how about a drink? this ancient club at noon, i'll phone you first i guess, i hope i see you soon)<em>

* * *

><p>Her heart thuds in her chest, beating against her ribs as if it wants to get out and run away because it's all too scary and real. Of course, the cop in her is more realistic and cautious. She looks up the place he suggests 'The Old Haunt' and checks and double checks and she's not sure if it's out of curiousity, concern for her safety or insecurity. Perhaps a dangerous concoction of all three.<p>

Flustered and slightly out of breath, she pushes her hair away from her face and bites at her lower lip. It's such an un-Beckett like thing to feel. Or rather, it's something she's felt before but not in a long, long time and so the sudden flush of hope takes her by surprise.

He gives it a day.

She's home when the phone trills. And the unknown number tips her off; gives her a few seconds to breathe.

Their voices are soft and quiet and most of the call is spent talking in hushed voices, as if they've both been let into a secret that nobody else knows. Perhaps it's that they're both scared. Her more so, she thinks. And in those few seconds she panics. Perhaps her baggage isn't something he wants to help her carry around. Then again, he replied, didn't he? She continues as if everything were okay and she isn't scared and she isn't unsure and some tiny part of her believes maybe he's sitting wherever he is and doing completely the same thing.

She thinks about his face and his arms and eyes and imagines the sort of person she can see herself being with. It's hard to get a picture, because Royce and Demming and Josh all get in the way and remind her of her past mistakes. Their features blend into one and suddenly this mystery person becomes a combination of all three and she's back to that scared panic again. Because she doesn't want this to be another _thing_. She's tired of fucking and pretend loving.

Part of her wonders if he's sitting, contemplating her face. And for the first time, she reverts back to the stupid teenage self who's paranoid about everyone and everything and feels this pressure weighing on her to be beautiful.

Despite it all, she sleeps a tiny bit better that night.

* * *

><p><em>(i never got your name, i assume you're thirty three, your voice, it sounded kind, i hope that you like me, when you see my face, i hope that you don't laugh, i'm not a film star beauty, i'll send a photograph, i hope that you don't laugh)<em>

* * *

><p>It all seems too good and lovely and honest to be true and real and when he heard her voice, slightly more timid than he had expected (but only slightly; he could tell she was strong, determined, grounded), it felt like all those thing exaggerated.<p>

The Old Haunt waits for him the next day, his stomach buzzing with a sick type of nerves. Talking and typing were all very well, but letting somebody in, letting them see you and be close to you and touch your skin and breathe closer and whisper and make eye contact and break free from photos and phone calls to become real, solid things... that was complicated and terrifying. He had barely told Katherine anything about himself.

The possibilities and odds felt stacked up against him. Each one a building block of the tallest, thickest wall which led him further and further away from the girl he wanted.

The girl sitting with her sandy coloured hair curling over her shoulder. Her high cheek bones defining the rest of her face, and giving the impression of a strong, beautiful, woman. Focused and clear and sharp, yet gnawing on her thumb nail and clutching at the book in her hand and peering around nervously.

He stands watching from a distance, lingering for a few seconds too long and not even caring that he'd bordering on strange and creepy. He takes the moment in; takes her in. His eyes lingering all over. His eyes lingering on her book. The author.

Richard Castle.

His heart thuds. It beats and pounds and punches his rib cage fiercely and his first instinct is the childish one of running and hiding. Anonymous. A person in a city with a name. Couldn't he have that? He walks over and doesn't look st her and orders a drink and he's not her as her date, he tells himself over and over. He doesn't want that. His words are what he's trying to escape; they can't have followed him here, surely?

His eyes linger too long and, like a match, conversation is struck up and burns strong and fades out. Helped her through her mother's murder, she tells him. Favourite author, she tells him.

When he's gone, she looks around, confused and lost.

Heavy is the cost.

* * *

><p><em>(note to single m: why did you not show up? i waited for an hour, i finally gave up, i thought once that i saw you, i thought that you saw me, i guess we'll never meet now, it wasn't meant to be, it wasn't mean to be, i was sure you saw me, but it wasn't meant to be)<em>

* * *

><p>It's out of spite that she sends it. The same way she bangs the desk to scare a particularly difficult suspect. The satisfaction of knowing she'd had some sort of last word.<p>

That's the Detective talking.

Somewhere, Katherine Beckett is sighing softly and leaving a bar and tugging her coat closer and thinking 'not tonight'. Someday, she might tag on a 'maybe next time', but her recent levels of optimism have been drained dry and she doesn't feel up to the task of replenishing them in her current state.

Instead she sleeps, and clears the call history of her phone.

* * *

><p><em>(wanted: single f, under thirty three, must enjoy the sun, must enjoy the sea, sought by single m, nothing too heavy, send photo to address, is it you or me?)<em>

* * *

><p>He masks it with her problems and her baggage and somewhere in his head there's still a tiny, stupid spot for 'her'. Sometimes that part is a comfort on a rainy day, or a person to sit by in the park. He projects it onto his lovers and pretends they're her and she wasn't reading that book and he hadn't deleted her number and that they could just stay and pretend and not have to continue on being single f's and m's and letters and numbers and words on a page.<p>

Although, over time, she's slowly compressed to an image in his head and a woman of his imagination, she's something more than the others. She makes him watch to break free and become more than the words.

And so he captures her with them instead. Freeing himself and tying her up. The girl with the hair, with the coat, with the book. The girl with the timid voice filled with a confidence that needs a little teasing out. Like a drawing on a napkin, she's an idea that pops into his head at all the wrong times and in all the wrong places and has never once let him go.

* * *

><p><em>(is it you or me? is it you or me? is it you or me?)<em>


	2. killers

**a/n; this is story number two, killers. unrelated to story number one, but uses the same song, 'personal' by stars. i'm seriously hoping i didn't mess this up because writing it was hard. i would super appreciate some concrit in reviews? **

**also dedicated to katie for defeating those damn huns.**

**disclaimer; nothing is mine. not castle and not personal. because. if it was there would be no three week hiatus.**

* * *

><p>Richard Castle had always been consumed by murder. In what he wrote, in what he thought, in what he saw. It was never a problem, and so he never needed a solution. He was Rick Castle; joker, world's best dad, sometimes world's best son and a best selling mystery writer. And sometimes he wants so desperately to break free from those boxes that he's been put into. He's nothing more than titles and signatures and smiles for camera's and a father and a son and an author and that's it. Period. Full stop.<p>

The idea passes through his mind one night, whilst trying to figure out the most interesting way to kill somebody. He waves it away, it's a stupid thought. He's figuring things out for his _character_, not for himself.

Three days later, when he's sipping a scorching hot coffee, it returns. So does Alexis, back from school. It's gone quicker than the first, when he sees her face.

The third time, he's alone and outdoors and it occurs to him that there's nothing stopping him, right there in the middle of central park. Beyond logic, of course, because in broad daylight with plenty of witnesses milling around is not the right time or place to commit a murder. He's home and back to writing, before he even realises that he considered the people in the park as 'witnesses'.

The fourth time, the murder is already planned out on the murder board. He says it's for a novel, but as he finds himself at the website, he knows that's not true.

* * *

><p><em>(wanted: single f, under thirty three, must enjoy the sun, must enjoy the sea, sought by single m, mrs. destiny, send photo to address, is it you and me?)<em>

* * *

><p>Katherine Beckett had a dating account. Yes. Did she use it? No. Had she ever thought about using it? Perhaps once or twice. But it had been used for a case, to try and lure a killer into their grasp. She was pretty sure it was still being checked, or something. Surely that was procedure? Except, that was just an excuse that she kept telling herself. Just like 'I don't have time to date' was. Because the dating profile had never been tracked in the first place. It had been used for a case, but only for a day to sort out a date with their murderer.<p>

And now, three months later, she got a ping or a poke or a notice or whatever the damn things were called. Again, the excuse came quick and fast. Number one was, it was c reepy. Some people liked the websites, but she had never been a fan of them. She liked people with bodies and faces and voices. Number two was that same old 'Kate, you don't have time', like the nagging mother at the back of her head. Except she had plenty of time. She just let her work take up every second of it.

And then her excuses stopped. She _knew_ they didn't have the profile checked and she _knew_ she had time and she _didn't know_ that it was safe, but she was safe and cautious and... alone. Perhaps. Perhaps, Lanie was right. She needed somebody.

With a sigh, she hesitated for a second and then clicked 'respond'.

* * *

><p><em>(reply to single m: my name is katherine, cell phone number here, call if you have the time, twenty eight and bored, grieving over loss, sorry to be heavy, but heavy is the cost, heavy is the cost)<em>

* * *

><p>All day he feels tense and on edge. Alexis closes the door too loudly and Martha clinks her glass against the wine bottle too sharply and his head feels too heavy and his chest is tight, like it's going to suddenly collapse and crush his lungs and his heart and he'll be the one resting in the morgue, his skin cold and pale.<p>

He needs something to do and think about so that he doesn't think about every single detail of the idea running through his head... the plan that he's put into place. _God.._

Instead he writes, his fingers pounding against the keyboard over and over, spilling out words that he didn't even know he had in him. He's not concerned about plot or characters or anything beyonds a distraction from the thoughts creeping into the corners of his head and consuming him whole. It's only when he looks at the strange shapes that make letters that make words that make sentences that he realises just what he's been writing. A woman, long hair and thin face. Walking home in the dead of night, stabbed in a dark alleyway. A man, short dark hair and wearing a well fitted suit, on his way home from work, shot as he enters his apartment. Another woman, sitting at her computer with a glass of wine, signs up for a dating site. Two days later, she's drugged and murdered and left in the park, blood spilling out over the grass.

His fingers stop typing. He lets out a shaky breath before deleting everything he's written.

Instead he returns to the website and starts a new kind of story.

* * *

><p><em>(reply to katherine: thanks so much for response, these things can be scary, not always what you want, how about a drink? this ancient club at noon, i'll phone you first i guess, i hope i see you soon)<em>

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><p>When the message pops up, she spends more than a few minutes staring at it, all sorts of ideas making their way into her head. Different possibilities leap out at her from every direction, but she waves them away. She has a date and it's with a person. Lanie will be happy.<p>

And her? The Kate Beckett inside her is still make excuses and is hitting herself for ever responding. Paperwork this and murder suspects that and every other excuse under the sun. In reality though, she knows there's no running away from this one, or hiding in stacks of work to get out of it. When the last piece of paper is filled out and filed away for the night, she knows that she can't make up any more excuses. And so says goodnight to Ryan and Espo and leaves for home, her head still thinking through every single detail of the messages.

It seems so unlike her, to be the kind of woman who finds herself wondering all about somebody that she's met online. A slight smile tugs at the corners of her mouth and when she reaches her apartment, she realises that she has to stop twirling her hair to open the door.

Dammit, Kate.

It's worse when the phone rings, because she realises that she actually has to face reality, instead of some image she's built up in her head. His voice is soft, nervous sounding, but she waves it away, thinking she must sound the same. He hesitates too much and she adds in a few extra pauses so they match, not wanting him to feel uncomfortable.

The same thought about her being safe runs through her head, and she listens carefully. Tomorrow, she decides to be on her guard.

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><p><em>(i never got your name, i assume you're thirty three, your voice, it sounded kind, i hope that you like me, when you see my face, i hope that you don't laugh, i'm not a film star beauty, i'll send a photograph, i hope that you don't laugh)<em>

* * *

><p>Everything becomes too horribly real when he sees the woman's photograph and hears her voice and realises that she's a living, breathing person. The air rushes out of his chest and breathing feels impossible, with his whole body collapsing in on itself. He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes and deep breath and runs his fingers through his hair and takes a deep breath and takes another deep breath because he's sure the air isn't even reaching his lungs.<p>

Sleep doesn't come to him that night, and eventually he swings his body out of bed to run his fingers over the details of his murder board.

In the morning, he regrets it. The dark circles under his eyes make him look even more dangerous. In the hours before he meets her, his heart thumps against his ribcage and every breath in his body feels trapped.

When he finally sets eyes on her, the breath is released. Again and again, over and over he slowly regains control of his breathing, as if he had sudden amnesia and has to learn how to do it all over again. Her long hair curls around her neck and falls down her back, swishing from side to side as her head moves. She's dressed nicely; feminine but not over the top and girly girl. The bartender is clearly attempting to flirt with her, but she's passing it off with a raised eyebrow, and an uninterested half smile. He waits for the moment that he describes in his books. When the hunter latches eyes on their prey and struggle to control themselves, the burning need coarsing through their blood. The thrill and the power and the rush of adrenaline as they recognise their ability to stop a beating pulse.

As he watches her, with her sharp cheekbones and her wide eyes and the way she bites her lip and pushes her hair back, he doesn't once want the life to leave her body. He imagines a future, in his head. The story that he should have wrote last night, instead of the one he forced himself to delete.

The strong woman who makes her mark on the world, instead of the weak victim found dead in the park the next morning.

His breath catches again, and he swallows, turning away.

Despite everything he is, he can't add 'murderer' onto his long list of titles. Not her, at least. He wouldn't let himself hurt her.

* * *

><p><em>(note to single m: why did you not show up? i waited for an hour, i finally gave up, i thought once that i saw you, i thought that you saw me, i guess we'll never meet now, it wasn't meant to be, it wasn't mean to be, i was sure you saw me, but it wasn't meant to be)<em>

* * *

><p>It's spiteful and stupid and immature and makes her sound desperate, but she doesn't care. If that guy, creep or no creep, thinks for one second that he's going to get the better of Kate Beckett, he can think again.<p>

After an hour, she gives up waiting and after the bartender's shift is over, is free from all unwanted attention. It's then when she hits the alcohol. Not _hit it, _hit it, because she has work the next day and she doesn't want to do something stupid. But she drinks until she has a happy fuzz and a slightly blurred vision, then hails a cab home. Fuck him. Fuck the bartender. Fuck Josh, Fuck Demming, Fuck Royce.

When she gets home she stabs the 'send' button on the message, and immediately goes to delete her profile. It was a ridiculous idea.

Soon, all the evidence is ereased. That night becomes a bad night clouded with alcohol and fuzzy memories of anger and loneliness. The next day, she finds herself at work, nursing a mild headache. She doesn't tell anybody, just surrounds herself in paperwork and hides. But she catches the killer. Again. And again. And a few dozen times after that, too.

Kate Beckett, NYPD. A strong woman who makes her mark on the world.

* * *

><p><em>(wanted: single f, under thirty three, must enjoy the sun, must enjoy the sea, sought by single m, nothing too heavy, send photo to address, is it you or me?)<em>

* * *

><p>She pushes the screenshot across the table towards the man who was formerly her favourite author. The rumours were true. Writing wasn't enough. When he says nothing, she scrapes her chair back from the desk, and leaves the room, banging the door shut.<p>

Before anybody can see, she bolts to the bathroom and heaves. It's sick and twisted and wrong and _why him?_ And why _her? _Why did he leave her? The message is identical to the one she received over a month ago. The victim's replies and his responses match the events of that night she was so desperate to forget. And the most sick and twisted thing of all is that she should have been one of the girls lying in the morgue, with the life drained out of them, skin cold and pale and body lifeless. Did he chicken out on the first go? He seemed to have no problem with the other three. So why was she the one interrogating him, and not some other detective who had taken her place after her death?

There are copies of his books on the table; they had been reading them for clues. All those murders, all planned out and down to the detail. Was hers planned out, like the victims in his book? Did he write it out beforehand, imagining her dead body lying in some alley or some park? Was Richard Castle really going to murder her?

She wants to ask him, to bang the table and shout and demand an answer, tell him that she's going to make his time in prison hell if he doesn't cooperate, but Esposito is already taking him into holding.

Before she leaves, she visits him, pressing her face close to the bars of his cell.

"It wasn't meant to be," he said softly.

* * *

><p><em>(is it you or me? is it you or me? is it you or me?)<em>


End file.
